Greyscale
by arctique48
Summary: He’s destroyed so much and still she tries to find someone to blame for who he is. TwoPart.
1. Chapter 1

**Diclaimer: Hogwarts etc belongs to JKR**

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You hate this war.

You hate the life it made you lead.

You hate the people it killed, the prejudices it spawned.

You hate the bubbling feeling of fear that hangs behind your eyes in certainty of what will happen tomorrow.

You hate the funerals and the white lilies and the black dress robes that you don almost every weekend for one service after another.

And you hate him.

You hate him because in your mind he made it happen. Because he is the epitome of every reason that lies behind this war. He is prejudice and hate and petty blue-blood rivalries. He is corruption and greed and he takes and takes and never gives (not with his heart, only his wallet).

And that isn't all. Perhaps if it were you could blame it on his father, his up bringing (because you know not everyone was loved as much as you by their parents…) He was born out of responsibility and need to continue a dying bloodline, you from love. He was born to duty and loyalty and it stays with him. The need to kill and not be killed. He's saving himself, his family (not bodily, not personally, not his parents and cousins but his blood), he is saving his name.

You still think back and hate him for the fall of your home. You hate him for letting them in. You hate him for having a mother who made a pact with Snape and you hate him for doing it all because he had to rather than for belief. Because it makes him more difficult to loath, more difficult to blame.

You sometimes long for someone else to hold responsible, as you sit here and watch him or as you lie in bed and remember. In times like those you search and search for someone else to hate for who he is. (Because he's just a boy. And you're just a girl. Killing isn't meant for children. It isn't his fault. It can't be his fault because then you are just as much in the wrong. And you aren't ready to shoulder the blame.)

The War for you started with him. It wasn't Harry with his death-defying adventures or the Order with their missions and espionages… The War stared for you at age thirteen. The War started when Ron made himself belch slugs as Malfoy's bad words. That was when it began to get real. (Because it's not just a word. It's a label. It's the root, the beginning. A curse. A curse on your blood.) And you hate him for that. (Children shouldn't know war, children shouldn't kill and hate and understand what it means to die.) In that sense he stole your childhood. And you hate him.

"Granger? You going to do anything other than stare at me? Got no questions to ask?"

You hate that he can sit across from you, all pristine robes and silken (pretty shiny blond, you envy him) hair, and seem so unruffled. (How can he act like it's nothing? That him being _here_, with you, is normal?) He watches you through calm (grey, pale, pure. Empty like mirrors –) eyes, watches you like he's at a zoo and you're something dull and brown hiding in the mud (not a lion or a bird, he looks at you as though you were a slug. You don't think you want to be the slug, even in his eyes only, but he just wont let you off the ground.) He has no freedom. No privacy. Not even magic behind these grey (grey, grey, like his eyes) bars. But he still has his pride. And prejudices. And he may be a prisoner and a murderer and a bad, bad person with not even the will to reform but he is better than you. With his lazy drawl and aristocratic nose and pristine, pure blood he is so much better than you. And you'll hate him forever for that.

And that's the reason you do it. Coming here day after day, with questions he never feels the need to answer. ("Tell them they might get their names when they send someone other than the mudblood whore to do the asking." "Tell them I'll talk when there's something worthy of licking my house elf's feet to hear it." "Tell them I need more water, Granger. And hurry, I reckon exercise might do you good.") They told you he had the key. That he was the one that could give you answers, answers to the code you spend so many nights slaving over. They told you that through him you might be able to unravel the hints and nonsensical runes to see them, to find their plans and save lives. Save so many lives. (All you want is to make it go away. The war. The death. The pain and the fear.) You don't want to have to get up next Sunday with your lilies and black dress robes to attend your parents' funerals. Too many deaths and you sit here and ask him for redemption or salvation or hope. Because you've done wrong, again and again you've done wrong and you think it would be so good to make it all go away.

But he wont let you.

And he's behind bars and magicless and surrounded by the enemy and yet he's still so damn confident and certain and _proud_. And you want your pride back. You want to look in the mirror and be pleased with what you see. Revulsion. Contempt. Shame. (It's because of him. His words and his war. He did this to you. He stole your pride.) You want to watch your reflection smile with the knowledge of a job well done or anticipation of the future. You don't want to brush your teeth facing the door so as not to be reminded of him and his superiority. (Mirror so like his eyes, cold, empty, hard and unforgiving. The mirror watches with contempt.)

You know it's stupid and you're being petty and silly (only children) but when you look at him and think you understand and it makes you slightly sick. Because what he's doing doesn't seem so very different to what others have in the past. (James Potter, Remus Lupin, Sirius Black. They took the beatings, they took it all with heads high. Contempt was their best weapon. Their superior morals kept them going. That's what he's doing, you think. You think it and are so scared, because you're not sure where you stand. You and them are not so dissimilar. Were you born on the other side of the line you could be the same.)

_He thinks he's fighting for life. He thinks _he's_ killing the bad guys. What if you got it wrong?… But it's genocide. They want to wipe out an entire _species_…. But it's kill or be killed. They call it self-preservation. They're fighting for their future… What are you fighting for little girl? Hope? Freedom? A prejudice free world for your children? (Your life. Your dignity. The power to look your reflection in the eye and not think of Draco Malfoy with his eyes and his contempt. Fighting for the right to _know_ you're better than him.) Because it's only fair. _

"Where were you on the 27th July?"

Grey eyes watch and his lips twist. Smirking. Stubborn. (He's just a child. Like you. Grew up so quickly respect and manners passed him by entirely. It isn't fair. You'll never be whole people again. So many things were taken by this war and you hate to know that you're an adult. Already. And yet it's been so long since it all began. ("_Mudblood_"))

He doesn't answer.

"Does the name Melissa Smith mean anything to you?"

"Should it, Granger?"

You hate the challenge on his face. You hate it almost as much as your willingness to accept it. He manipulates people and you feel it happening. You feel the anger bubbling and you hate him as he smirks. And knows. And waits for you to break. (Because you will. Only for him you will snap and shatter for all your desperation not to bend.)

"She died in great pain. They found her body in the river, every bone broken exactly six times into exactly seven pieces."

He smirks at you, eyes hidden in the shadows the bars cast across his cell.

"Getting closer, eh, Granger?"

You think these tokens, these numbers might mean something and Harry thinks Malfoy holds the key. You watch his teasing smirk and ice hard eyes and you think he might be right. But he sure as hell won't let you crack him.

You considered it once. You were alone and bitter as the rain poured through an open window (it had been so bright that morning, you hadn't thought you'd need to close it). You mopped the puddle up the muggle way, because you were at home and it made you feel bad to become so reliant on your magic… and because your mum would mop it up herself. And she would be pleased with a job well done and that simple satisfaction in something personal sometimes strikes you as nice… Because magic might not last forever (not that you'll ever let them win) and if it comes to that you'd like to know that you still have the ability to clean up puddles if you leave the window open in a storm… As you wrung out the cloth (the muggle way, with wet fingers and clenched fists) you thought about it.

Sometimes you think about how silly it all is. Petty almost. But genocide can never be petty, so you cast back your reservations and charge in with curses and stunners… Because it shouldn't matter – blood – birth – magic – it shouldn't mean a thing. But they see it as something, and with that you are forced to aswell, forced to defend what shouldn't ever need defending. And you defend it. And you kill doing so. And you've lost so much to it that sometimes you cry. (Dinner date wrecked in a wave of broken glass and tortured screams. You made yourself a hero that day. First kiss as you watched his eyes go blank.) Innocence lost in the principles of other. It doesn't seem fair. You doubt it ever will but questioning it won't win you the war so you follow Harry into battle and help the healers when the soldiers fall. (Soldiers? Since when? School friends, quidditch rivals, prefects and troublemakers… not warriors. Only children.)

"When did you last see your Aunt?"

"Sunday dinner, sometime last month. House elves cooked pheasant. Tasted great. Ever been hunting, Granger?"

Gritted teeth and you face forward. "Was your mother there too?"

"My mother?" His tone is light. "Why would you want to know about my mother?"

"What does she do when you and your Aunt are away?"

"What do you think? But then I suppose you weren't bred to know what ladies of class do in their spare time, were you, Granger?"

"Are you going to enlighten me?"

"Nope."

He looks at you and you watch back (because he's not worth your glares, that would be energy wasted). Watching and waiting in the vain hope that something might slip. Hoping.

"_What's wrong with Veritaserum?"_

"_What do you think, Ron? Remember Harry said he's an Occlumens, he could block the potion and feed us any old nonsense."_

"_Well, what do muggles do when they need information out of a person?"_

"_Well, I suppose they psych them out, professional interrogators can get information out of anyone. Either that or torture."_

"_Can't we just do that? The first one?"_

"_It's not a matter of 'just doing that', it takes decades of training and even after that it relies to some extent on personality. The Ministry have people who could do it, I keep saying we'd be best to hand him over…"_

"_You know we can't. He'd have bought his way out in less than a day."_

"_I'm serious, Ron, I can't do this! He's end up screwing more with my head than I'll manage with his."_

"_Come on, Hermione, you know you've got a hell of a better chance than the rest of us in this. And in he tries anything I'll come break his neck for you, yeah?"_

"_Ha. You promise?"_

"_With pleasure."_

"_I'm not sure whether to be grateful or disturbed."_

"_I wouldn't put too much thought into it. And anyway, the worst comes to the worst and I know plenty of people none too willing to torture it out of him… I heard somewhere that muggles peel the finger nails off of people to make them talk."_

"_Ergh. Ron, that's disgusting. And barbaric. And I flatly refuse to touch Draco Malfoy's toenails, code to crack or no."_

"_Ha. Then get going. You've got a captive to provoke."_

You remember back to when you were at school. Those months in sixth year when he drew Harry's suspicion to the point of obsession. You'd thought it was foolish then. Yes, Malfoy was a bully and Slytherin to the core but evil? Death Eater? He was only a child. Like you. You'd ignored your friend's warnings and done nothing, because how could he poison mead and hand out cursed jewellery? How could he attempt murder when he still sneered at your hair and called Ron 'Weasel'?

And when Harry told of how his hand had shook and his confidence wavered you were so certain, so utterly convinced that he was not yet lost. Dumbledore had offered him something perhaps he didn't disserve, but he had considered it – considered another way of life – only to have it ripped away by the one person you would have expected to help him. And the fact that it was not him to cast the spell, that fact for so long kept your faith alive. Because he wasn't like Snape, surely? He'd been so scared he'd cried to Moaning Myrtle, that had to say something… Regret? Guilt? But perhaps it had been just that. Fear. Maybe the only thing that mattered to him was his life. Maybe the only reason he considered the words of that dying old man was because he knew Dumbledore would never torture him. Maybe he isn't worth the effort.

All the same, you still wonder and occasionally hope that he'll have a change of heart. Because, hate him as you must, you pity him. Because no matter how hard he tries to hide it, he's still petrified of his Master. There was time when you thought Lucius was the one he answered to, but now, now with his father gone he bleeds for the Dark Lord himself. (And it isn't right. He's only a boy. Children should not advocate death. Children should not break the bones of little girls. Children should be able to play with unicorn without pronouncing terror.)

"When did you last speak with Snape?"

His face flickers but the moment passes and you identify nothing.

"You still bitter he left you? Must have been a pretty neat weapon to think you had… Why _did_ you lot trust him?"

You meet his eyes. "We trusted Dumbledore."

He frowns. "Fat lot of good that did you."

You just watch him.

"Are you scared, Draco?"

He visibly flinches, shoulders twitch and head jerks.

"Of you, Granger?" He tries so hard, to play it cool, to act so unruffled and proud.

"Are you afraid of dieing? Of pain?" Your gaze is steady and he rolls his eyes, they rest on the floor.

"I'm not afraid of anything, Granger." And the sneer would have been convincing were it not for his involuntary movement to hold his left arm.

"Not even Lord Voldemort?"

A sharp spasm and he looks ready to gag. His eyes flash. "You don't know what you speak of Granger." He snarls. "He'll take you too, he'll make you suffer like you never knew possible. You're not fit to speak his name!"

"Who is?" It's said with a sigh and he watches you warily. "We've got to the end of the week, Malfoy. If I find nothing you're handed over to Harry and Ron. Trust me, you'd far rather get this over with now."

He raises an eyebrow and lies down. "Until next time, Granger."

"Right."

You leave and you wonder, yet again, what you really think about Draco Malfoy. You hate him and you pity him. You blame him and yet you know it is not his fault.

For all his superiority, pride and contempt you would not chose his life for anything. It is like he was damned from birth (or the moment Harry refused his hand in friendship…) he can do nothing right and he suffers for it. And yet he is too cowardly, too human to do anything but continue.

Whether by your hands or those of your friends, or perhaps even of his Master, he is going to break. The façade will crumble and you know that then, when he bleeds because no one will allow him anything different, you will feel something more than smugness or pride. Because he was no more built for war than you. And he may fight but that doesn't necessarily mean he needs to die. And for all your hate, life would not be the same with Malfoy broken, because he's the one opponent you feel you have a hope of beating. And its strange, and you hate him for making you so confused, and making you see the world in more than black and white, and as much as you try to tell yourself he is like Severus Snape or Tom Riddle you do not see how this foolish, scared little boy who introduced you to the world of war, could truly be evil. Because his hand shook. Because he still tries to run.

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	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Hogwarts etc belongs to JKR**

**AN: **Part 2. Because everyone is on holiday and I'm bored. Tis Draco's POV (well, ish. Draco POV from the second person?).

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The thoughts that went through your head that night were not something you like to dwell on these days. You've made your decision. It was the only decision and you know it. And your angry at yourself for ever believing otherwise. (_It was the nerves_, you plead with yourself. _I'm not that weak. I could have done it_!)

When you returned home your mother wept with happiness. She hugged Severus before pulling you into the tightest embrace you'd ever shared.

You felt numb. Sometimes you do still. When you eat a chocolate frog and an old man with bright blue eyes winks at you. Sometimes you remember a frail figure clinging to a stone wall for support. Sometimes you remember him offering you hope – a way out. Sometimes you remember lowering your wand.

"How long's it gonna be, Malfoy? How long will it take you to give up?"

Snape saved you that night. He finished the job you were never confident you could do and in doing so granted you your life. He saved you have yet you feel yourself hating him for obliterating that one chance… that suggestion of a whisper of a hope.

"I don't 'give up', Granger. And how long's it gonna take _you_ to live with the fact you cannot win?"

You're not the same person anymore. Not the same boy who called Hermione Granger names or laughed at Weasley's robes. You're not even the same boy that stood before the protector and leader of your sworn enemy and _knew_ you could not cast the spell. You've changed now – not necessarily grown up (still just a boy) but definitely changed.

"You can try all you want, Malfoy, but if you think for one second I'll believe a word of the rubbish you insist on feeding me, you've got another thing coming."

The attitude you once held began to corrode with your father's capture.

That summer had been the worst of your life. There can be no doubt. You occasionally come to think it: _You should have died them. You should have died that August_. But you didn't and what you're left with is stark.

_Tensing as darkness rises like bile in your throat. It is as though its burning path is like a mark of your servitude, like that brand on your arm it burns and you bend to its will. The will of the darkness, the will of the Mark. Why was it you did it? Stupid boy you were then. A fool as the blackness swirls around you._

It was not by your own mistakes you are in this position. Sometimes you resent that. That the people who bought you here. Sometimes it feels like fate, as though the gods are working against you and no matter how many opportunities you seem to be offered for redemption you are already damned.

Once you decided to end it all. You stood on the highest balcony of the Manor and watched the 17th century paving with its potted shrubs below for three full hours. But you turned away and it sickened you, even as you told yourself suicide was for muggles and Hufflepuffs. (_Not man enough to kill. Not even the strength of will to take another step. Just one more step and I was too cowardly. They weren't right! No. I'm not a coward. It's common sense. I've got a reputation and a duty to uphold. Besides, what would mother do without me?)_

Sometimes you think back and cringe at your own blatant ignorance. The pride you felt when it was announced you were to take your father's place. The honour you found in the assignment. The shame you felt as you looked upon the worn face of an old man (a great man). Regret is something you chose to ignore in all its forms.

You just don't want to die.

You're so scared and so ashamed of the fear but you are too much of a coward to run. Too much of a coward to live a better life that would be far kinder to you than the 'easy' route you travel now.

"_Are you scared, Draco?"_

You hate her. So much more than you did before. She thinks she knows (not understands, but knows all the same). She thinks she sees your reasoning and your fears. She thinks she's good enough to sit out there and watch you with _pity _in her eyes, as if it's you with the dirty blood and the fear of having a Dark Lord after your soul.

She has no right to pity you. She has no right to _look_ at you.

Your life changed that night in the tower. An old man you held in the utmost contempt for all your life offered you a chance at something you never thought existed: an escape. He'd offered you a way out.

Redemption? Was that what you'd seen? Hope? Light? Freedom?

But he'd been dying. It was the insane muttering of a broken old fool. They could not help you.

You were simply never meant to be saved.

"Malfoy?"

And it is melodramatic thoughts like that that were going to get you killed.

"Malfoy!"

Your head jerks sharply to face the bushy haired head of a brown-eyed girl.

"What?" Your voice is taut and harsh but if she notices it does not show.

"You were about to tell me when the last time you'd spoken with Vold- You-Know-Who was."

"Was I now?"

"Yes." She radiates a sense of confidence, or determination or something else that makes the hairs of the back of your neck stand on end.

She does that sometimes you find. Goes all demanding and definite. But it never lasts for long. All it takes it a raised eyebrow and an amused look and she'll deflate and go back to looking lost and slightly uncomfortable.

"Well?"

"You honestly expect me to answer?"

"Well, it would be nice."

You blink and she blushes. "Nice?" You snort slightly and she looks away.

"Look," she fidgets, all stressed and twitchy, "We'd get through this much quicker if you were just to _attempt_ to cooperate. Even just pretend! I'm serious, Malfoy, do you honestly think you've got so little left to lose? Aren't you tired of _fighting?_"

You eyes meet hers and sneer, though even she seems to know your heart's not really in it.

"Who says I'm fighting, Granger?"

"Argh! Why do you do this? You–" She cuts herself off, sighing. "Did you know Pansy Parkinson was in St Mungo's?"

You look up sharply and she bites her lip, looking like a guilty little girl, scared of upsetting someone even as she begins to bitch.

When you say nothing she continues. "Received an unidentified curse to the back of the head. No one knows what it is but the healers think they've got her stabilised." She pauses, looking uncertain and miserable with herself. "They were going to release her today, let her go home to her parents, but they found the Dark Mark on her arm. She's being shipped of the Azkaban as we speak, without a trial."

You watch her and are not sure how to respond. You don't even know how she _wants _you to respond; you don't think she even knows herself.

You lower your eyes and nod. "Right." You mutter, not sure whether you want to believe her or not.

She shifts and you look up. She's looking at you as though ready to apologise and you silently school all emotion from your face.

She looks uncertain, doubt flickers beyond her eyes and not for the first time you wonder why she comes here. She doesn't believe she can get it out of you any more than you do. She knows too little.

She's in two minds. She hates you with all her heart and soul, that much is blatant to anyone, but at the same time she wants to save you. It rings out in her pathetic pleas to get you to talk, as she tells you she only has a week before they bring in some lackeys to beat it out of you. As she hugs herself while telling you your school friend is rotting in the same hellhole as your father.

You wonder about her sometimes. About where she stands in this war. She fights for Light, without a doubt. She fights for Light and hates you so much for making the violence necessary. She fights for Light and yet you don't believe that is the driving force anymore. You think there's something more personal in the desperation she has to get the information out of you. She reads the names of ones you've killed. She brings pictures of corpses and orphaned children. She tells you of the interrogation your mother was given. She tells you how your father is suffering in Azkaban. She tells you how you'll be damned for all eternity and tries, eyes bright and throat dry, to explain why. She looks at you with carefully guarded (but never truly hidden) pain that would break a person's heart.

But you will not give up. You cannot give up. This is no different to all those years ago when you sent a cursed necklace to the school. You cannot resign to failure because he will kill you. You cannot begin to understand or think you'd like to care or realise that things could be different. You can't.

So you don't.

And you sit here and smirk because it upsets her and in that restores some form of normality. And she'll leave close to tears and you'll not care because that's what you're here for. To not care and to stand proud and sing out your cause without giving anything up. (_"Mudblood!")_ She hates you and you hate her but neither of you are here on your own agenda and the words you speak are not necessarily your own. (_"He'll find you, Granger, find you and you're filthy muggle bitch of a mother. You're all gonna die, Granger. You're gonna die and nothing you can make me say will change that.")_

And she still cries.

And when she leaves sometimes you do too.

And in some ways it still isn't so different from those times in sixth year when, with the weight of the mark on your arm, you planned the death of another in exchange for you own life (because you're too young to die). It isn't so different and if you close your eyes and block out the bars and the guarded face of a little girl you sometimes see him, an old man clinging to some vague faith no one will ever understand.

"_We trusted Dumbledore."_ She'd said. And now they trust Potter. And soon enough the cycle with begin again and again until eventually they all die. Because they can't win. They keep setting up targets for their enemies and that blind trust will give her hope in anyone. Anyone at all. (Even you.) And you can tell by the look in her eyes that she thinks she can save you. (_You're not meant to be saved.) _And you can tell by the way her eyes linger on the floor before they meet your own that she's trying everything she can to bring it out (what's left of the good person she's convinced you're able to be).

"Give it up Granger."

"What? Give what up, Malfoy?"

"Hope, Granger. Give up hope. It's never going to get you anywhere."

And she looks at you and seems so wounded and lost. And you would feel guilty were it not for the fact that you know she's taking in your words, storing them away and beginning to understand. And the more she understands the less faith she'll have in people like Dumbledore and Potter, and maybe (just maybe) she might see why you do it. (Not to save yourself, not because you must or you want to, but because it is the only thing to do.)

"Has he already done it, Malfoy?"

You don't understand and she continues.

"Has he already broken you, Malfoy?"

And you glare and she watches back, all dark eyes with shining pity and an almost genuine sorrow.

"What makes you think there was anything to break, Mudblood?"

She smiles a sad little smile and you bare you teeth (because what else have you left to do?). She holds your eyes and pushes a cream envelope through the bars.

As suddenly as it comes to mind, you spring to your feet and grab her wrist, angry and scared and desperate all in one. You drag her to you until she's whimpering against the bars and you hiss into her ear.

"How long do you think it's going to last, Granger? _Little Mudblood_. There's nothing _left!_ Whether you die or not or I have Potter and Weasley beat the crap out of me or the Dark Lord comes here on his fucking _own_ to finish it, it doesn't make one blind bit of difference! No one's going to win, Granger! I won't and you won't and Harry fucking Potter won't either!"

And her eyes are wide and scared and you tug the envelope from her hand, shoving her towards the door.

"Get out, Granger."

And she does.

She picks up her bag and straightens her shoulders and turns almost before you see her tears.

She leaves and you collapse onto your bed, ripping into the envelope with shaking hands (adrenaline, anxiety, fear?).

The paper rips and as the contents fall onto your mattress you draw a shuddering gasp. And you cry. (Because that's all you are, a coward and a murderer.) You cry like you did to a bitter ghost when an innocent childhood seemed to have passed you by. Your shoulders shake and your throat grows dry and you hate her and hate her and hug yourself to make it go away. And you hate her and hate them and hate him and hate the fact that you were too much of a coward to make it all stop when you had the chance.

And the photos bleed before you, children, warriors and muggles alike. Equal finally in death. And it makes you sick and you ache. You ache and you cry and your mother smiles and your father scowls and a little girl is pale and cold with white flowers and black gowns.

And you hate Hermione Granger

Because you know it's real and yet she always feels the need to give you proof.

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